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Thursday, May 27, 2010

Not real hats though, they don't suit me. What I mean by that charming bland colloquialism is that I do lots of things. I'm a man of hyphens, for better or worse. My most entertaining title right now (well, maybe more entertaining than iphone-dumpsterdiver) is: Davey Davis, Art Truck Driver/Docent. Along with my job showing a strange travelling installation piece to diverse little (and big!) people around the state, I also now blog for the 337 project! Check out my seminal blog post on my life as truckdriver/art teacher over here.
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Monday, May 24, 2010

Blake, via Wendall Berry on the proportion of just control: "No bird soars too high if he soars on his own wings." Only when our acts are empowered by more than bodily strength do we need to think of limits. Think of the axe. Before the tool, a fight between two people could be healthy. Harm could be caused, an issue subdued in physical form, a dance of fists ending with lasting pain, but rarely death. Suddenly a simple hatchet appears, and the force that goes into, say, a slap, ends in a decapitation. The invention of tools led to a very real need for restraint.

In all phyiscal activity I often find myself coming back to something I first realized skiing. The model of human body I was delivered is capable of about 12-18 MPH unaided, and is built to sustain a fall of 12 feet or so from a little cliff. Into soft things, like dirt and foliage. Something to remember when zipping through a city of concrete grids in between 2 ton chunks of metal on a bike at 25-35 mph. It's a little bit like cheating. A psychological balance, a suspension of disbelief. The high that comes with playing this game is not unlike the experience of an urban Icarus. Except in place of something ambivilant and poetic, like the sun, on a bike you're snuffed out by a trucker with an eagle tattoo and a penchant for Rush Limbaugh.

This is the talisman of restraint, the quiet check and balance that keeps me alive. It is renewed, from time to time, with gruesome stories floating in from friends or the web. 6 cyclists in Montreal scattered like bowling pins. A friend with no memory. An acquaintance with no face. Life is a normaling network, days strung together, how quickly it changes. I consider myself fragile, consider myself lucky.
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Thursday, May 13, 2010

Cein Watson... A poet and a saint, a ruddy-faced smiler, even his bitterness is sweet. We're losing him to the backwoods of Vermont, where he plans to camp on his newly-acquired land until he builds himself a studio and a treehouse. Will you let us visit?

Bye

America, the Mid East, overground, underground. I hope to keep the ideas far-reaching. Please join into the mix via comments, and if you'd like to let me know about a thing or two please drop me an email